du_vallon | (no subject)

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Once he's settled Aramis away with some nice clothes, a few wedding magazines, and the cat, Porthos nearly hauls himself up the stairs to the upstairs apartment, not bothering to knock or shout that he's coming, so desperate and in a panic to tell Athos the warning he should have given three orgasms ago (or four or five, he sort of lost count). Even thinking about it now makes him flush and tug his collar as if he can hide some of the hickeys on his neck.

"Athos," he calls out in a hiss, trying not to let Aramis know the panicked tones he's taking on right now. He checks over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't followed as he rolls right into the kitchen to open the fridge and start searching for something to gnaw on while he's up here, fiddling with the phone he'd confiscated (with all the pictures on it). "I need to talk to you, if you're here," he calls out. "And I'm stealing a sandwich."

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Athos has learned to keep his bedroom door shut of a morning, and his blankets as far over his head as they will go, for the sake of his ears, his mind, and his sense of sanity. Usually that is enough to keep the noise from reaching him, though Aramis and Porthos have tested the limits of these walls on more than one occasion. That he can now picture them in the midst of passion only makes the matter worse - worse or better, depending on one’s perspective.

They are going to be the death of him.

Though things are rather quiet downstairs (thank God), Athos is more than a little startled when he hears his door open and shut. Moments later, he opens the bedroom and leans against the doorframe, mostly dressed, and eying Porthos skeptically. Athos isn’t exactly know for keeping a stocked pantry.

“And you can’t have one downstairs?" If they've fought again, he thinks he might just throttle both of them.

Already in the midst of his sandwich, he peers at Athos with wide eyes, shaking his head. "Can't," he informs Athos bluntly. "Or else my soon-to-be-wife is going to want to have breakfast and then I won't get the chance to give you fair warning before you go and say something really dim," he says, swallowing a bigger bite before he holds it out to Athos. "Want some?"

Athos waves away the offer. "I don't follow." He hadn't missed the 'wife' business, though he's half-convinced he'd misheard Porthos.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or are you going to eat my food?"

Porthos swallows back the large portion of sandwich he's just eaten, digging out his phone to find a fairly safe photograph he'd taken, though it's only safe if you don't advance. He pushes it across the counter and nods to it. "Aramis woke up this morning and is a woman. Thinks he's always been a woman, since the day he was born," he explains, cheeks turning a bit pink. "I ah, wouldn't look at any other pictures. You might see something you don't like," he says, given that the next are him and Aramis together.

"I don't have much time, she's downstairs. Thinks I wrecked all her clothes, so I have to go fetch new ones."

Lips pressed into a skeptical frown, Athos approaches and picks up the phone. He is met with the image of a beautiful woman, one with an admittedly familiar look of self-satisfaction on her face. She could be Aramis’ sister.

But nothing Porthos has said makes any sense. Narrowing his eyes, he slides the device back across the counter. “I still don’t follow."

He pockets the phone, giving Athos a sheepish look. This, he hadn't thought to bring up because Athos had missed it, so why should he have to explain? "This place has a few little odd things to it. Like how you can wake up five years old again, like I did. Or, like how Aramis can wake up thinking she's always been a Musketeer and nothing else is different apart from her body."

"Do not," he growls in warning, "say a single thing otherwise. It might be wrong, but it's what Aramis thinks is true and it's only temporary. Promise me you'll play along, Athos," he pleads.

“A few odd things.” Porthos isn’t usual a man prone to understatement, so here, surely, is one for the record books. “A few odd things. Hmm.” Athos is silent then, struggling to once again adjust his understanding of Darrow to encompass yet another impossibly strange phenomenon that he could have never predicted. He is far too sober for any of this to even begin making sense.

“And how long do you expect this to last?” Practicalities. At least he can focus on those.

"I was little for five days?" Porthos strains to recall, given that he doesn't really like to think about how that change had made him feel. He much prefers to think of after, and how he and Aramis had decided to stop seeing other people when he'd grown up again (so to speak). "I could quote Sestini," he jokes wryly. "Say it's the devil's work?" Except the devil would never craft such a beautiful body for Aramis' female form. He fidgets with his collar, getting a little bothered under Athos' focus.

Athos scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he tries to work his way through a problem he never expected to have. “So we must ensure that we can keep the truth from Aramis for, say, a week at most. Perfect.”

“You don’t think you would rather tell him?” A beat. “Her."

"Why?" is Porthos' genuine question as he regards Athos. "It will only last for up to a week, we think. So we cause distress for what purpose? Just to be honest about something that Aramis may doubt anyhow? She honestly believes it all, Athos, she has a whole history in her head that greatly resembles the existing one," he says.

"I would rather lie and feel guilty than cause Aramis any kind of harm or distress," he insists. "I never want to hurt Aramis."

“And you think we can keep up the lie for that long?” Athos returns, his question likewise genuine. The Aramis he knows is sharp-eyed, curious, and stubborn, a master at coaxing truth from those who would rather not share. “That everyone he knows can as well, that he will not detect that something is amiss?” He holds up a hand. “No one wants to cause Aramis distress. But surely it will be worse if he discovers that we have been keeping secrets from him."

"I think if one of us, you," he says pointedly, "goes around and finds out friends while I distract her with getting clothes, then yeah, I think we have a shot," he agrees, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I told her I accidentally bleached her clothes. She believes me. It helps that there's ... maybe some clothes in there," he admits, his cheeks flushing a very, very red colour as he admits to Athos one of their indiscretions.

"So, you tell the rest or just find Allison and make her tell people and then it'll be kept quiet."

“If he - she - discovers that something is amiss, then the consequences will be on your head,” Athos declares, though he no longer cares to argue. This is all too confusing, too mad, too impossible for him to think through logically. And perhaps that will be their saving grace. Even if Aramis does discover that something is afoot, she will never guess what.

As for whether or not they already have articles of women’s clothing to hand, Athos chooses to pretend he did not hear.

“I need a drink."

"At this hour?" Porthos might have allowed Athos this sort of thing back in Paris, but they weren't living so in another's pockets back then. He nods, though, for the accusation. "If Aramis finds out, then I'll willingly take on all the anger and the blame," he vows, but he has to try to keep that from happening, if only to do the best for all of them.

He wanders into the kitchen to fetch the brandy, despite his reservations, shoving the bottle at Athos. "Here," he says gruffly. "I've got a few more minutes before she'll notice I'm gone." He scratches at his neck, sighing deeply as his eyes scan Athos and wonder, curiously, what he might look like if the same thing had befallen him. He pushes those curious (and interested) thoughts away swiftly, because he suspects he'd look like something like Alice. Beautiful, but a bit sad, with those blue eyes.

Is Porthos to begin criticizing his drinking habits now? After all these years? Athos slides the man a skeptical look and finds a glass - two, in fact. He fills both with the brandy, and slides one to Porthos. The man looks like he needs one even more than Athos does.

“Are you all right?” he asks - belatedly, perhaps, but with genuine concern all the same.

Bit shocked, he feels almost like Athos has been able to hear or sense his thoughts. He shakes that silly thought away, knowing that there's no way Athos can know how often he and Aramis have been thinking about him. He drains back the brandy with little hesitation or grace, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "How would you feel?" he asks, a small part of him genuinely curious.

"Aramis thinks he's always been a woman and thinks we're getting married. Aramis," he says heavily, "who wants a family. I don't want to shatter her beliefs, but this is going to be hard, Athos."

Athos doesn’t know how to begin to answer. He still cannot picture the woman that sits in the flat below them, and he certainly cannot imagine what he would feel in Porthos’ position. He studies Porthos thoughtfully over his glass. “That is what the usual Aramis thinks, is it not?” He pauses, remembering Aramis’ passing references to a home in the countryside. “And what he wants?"

Porthos settles into the chair (his chair, once upon a time, because for a few months, upstairs had been his and he had decorated it with his touches that he still sees, from time to time) and rests his chin in his folded arms. "Yeah, of course," he agrees. "And I want that too, I mean eventually," he clarifies. "I'm still learning how not to be a terrible father person, but Aramis is, you know..."

Porthos flushes and ducks his head so he doesn't have to meet Athos' eye as he continues, feeling like a chastened boy. "She sort of thinks it can happen naturally, if you understand my meaning..."

“You won’t be a terrible father.” Athos does not even need to think about the reply; it is obvious, so thoroughly obvious, that Porthos would love and care for any child if given the chance. There is far too much love in his heart to fail at that task.

But children are not the matter at hand, not really. He presses his lips together. “I suppose she would."

He peers up at Athos, though there's still doubt on his face. The truth is that he might be warming up and thinking that he's getting better with kids, but he still doesn't think he's ready to be a father. He can handle them for a day or two, but raising them is much more responsibility than that. "I don't know anything about it," he points out. "I might not be terrible, but I'm not ready to be good, either."

He breathes in deeply and rubs his face. "I don't like lying," he says. "But in this case, I think for Aramis' mind, for her sake, I'll have to, but it's going to be so hard."

Athos knows that the confidence Porthos radiates is a thing that has built up slowly over time, earned through hard work and not granted by birth. But it surprises him to see the man so unsure on the matter of children. Who could better understand the plight of the helpless than one who has suffered so? Athos tries not to think too hard about what it would mean for him if Aramis and Porthos ended up with a pack of children underfoot, but he has no doubt of both their capability.

But that is a matter for another time, when they do not have such immediate troubles to see to. He is as unsettled by the thought of keeping up the charade as Porthos is, in part because he thinks Aramis knows them too well to be fooled into thinking that all is well. But Porthos is right: if she is as certain as she says, then how would she ever believe him, and what would it do to her spirit if she did? “We should be careful, keep things simple. Leave most of the talking to her until this passes, so that we do not find ourselves saying the wrong thing. If she is Aramis under everything, she won’t mind the chance to chatter."

"She's done plenty of it already," Porthos huffs out the words, rubbing a hand through his curls, having been made perfect by the morning ritual already. "She got really cross, thinking I'd thrown out all her clothes, but that was easily fixed by showing off the hat and coat. Apparently, they're all the same. The boots, too," he says, and he's struck by that more than anything -- how similar it all is, to Aramis.

“Then perhaps this will be possible,” Athos murmurs, half to himself. He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. Now that the shock had worn off, he is left wondering what madness Darrow might throw at them next. “I will inform whomever I can. You just keep him occupied."

Her. By God.

Porthos nods dutifully, used to accepting orders from Athos. In a way, he feels like this is what he's been missing for so long -- this sense of rightness in knowing who to follow and where to. "That shouldn't be a problem," Porthos says, cheeks flushing because though it might sound filthy, it's not.

"There's a lot of shopping to do, then I'll take Aramis out for lunch or out to the park," he says. He smirks, though, rapping twice on the table. "Careful you don't catch it," he teases. "One of you is bad enough, but coping with the both of you?"

“Out,” Athos commands, waving off Porthos’ smirks. “Look after Aramis. You’re good at that. I will handle the rest."

Porthos' grin only grows wider for the rebuke, feeling like he's at home when Athos is scowling at his remarks. "Fine," he permits. "I'll go make sure Aramis doesn't cause too much distress. Just uh, careful when you walk downstairs, if you're planning on a visit," he says. "Not that we mind unexpected visits," is his final say, laden with meaning as he leaves.

Porthos’ last quip brings a surprised flush to Athos' cheeks that he prays the other man does not spot as he departs. Aramis, a woman, with twinkling eyes, and knowing smirks, and cascading dark hair. Implications that had not before occurred to him flood his mind as he thinks on what he might encounter if he did venture downstairs unexpectedly.

Perhaps he will make himself scarce for the time being.

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